Həsən

Please introduce yourself briefly.

My name is Həsən, I’m 70. I’m from Qaratəhlə; my whole life has been spent on this land. Now I’m retired, I draw a pension, I stay at home. I’ve seen a lot; many eras have changed before my eyes. I saw Soviet times, I saw them collapse, and I see the present day too. So I have something to say.

What was your youth like, and where did you work?

My youth fell in the Soviet period. I studied, then I got a job in a government office and worked there for years. It was a respected job, a stable job.

Back then, when a person got a job, they knew they had a tomorrow. Wages came on time, everyone knew their place. Now I look back and see that stability was a blessing, but we didn’t know it then. You only learn the worth of what you have later on.

What happened when the Soviet system collapsed?

Everything was thrown into chaos. The 90s came, the state changed, law and order broke down. The old jobs disappeared, wages were cut off. You had to support your family, but how?

Back then I, too, left that job and went into trade. There was no other way. I bought and sold, I tried to make ends meet. Many people did the same; everyone got by on whatever they could find. Those were hard years, but we lived through them, we got through.

How do you get by now?

Now I get a pension and I live on that. It isn’t much, but when you’ve grown old, your needs are smaller too. The children help as well; they drop by now and then. Thank God, we’re not going hungry.

We’re old-school people; we know how to get by on little. We have a garden and an orchard, we keep a few chickens. In the village you’re never left completely empty-handed: the land keeps you going. But that’s getting by, not progress.

What was the work situation in the village like before?

Oh, my child, it was different before. Once our village had two factories, and a livestock farm as well. There were jobs; nobody was left without work. People even came here from other villages to work. Imagine: they came to our village looking for work.

The village was alive, it was bustling. In the morning people went to work, in the evening they came back. There were wages, there was life. Now when I tell young people about this, they don’t believe me. They say, “Grandpa, what kind of factory could there ever have been here?” But there was. I saw it with my own eyes.

What happened to those factories and the farm?

In the nineties they all closed down. Nobody took responsibility for them, nobody supported them. The state changed, there was no owner anymore, the equipment fell apart, it was taken apart and carted off. Within a year or two everything had died out.

When those factories closed, it wasn’t just buildings that closed: it was as if the life went out of the village. The jobs went, the people scattered. That’s when the village slowly started to empty. Now when I look at those places, my heart aches. They’re in ruins.

What is the village economy based on now?

To be frank, there’s no economy at all now. Only farming is left. People work the land, keep livestock, and live off that. There are no other jobs.

I mean, no plant, no factory, nothing else. Some people work the land, others go to the city. There’s no middle way. Whoever stays in the village either grows crops or raises livestock, and that’s it.

How does this affect young people?

Very badly. The way it turns out now, if a child does poorly at school, they stay in the village and work the land. If they do well, they’re bound to leave, because there’s no work for them here. A child who’s a bit bright, who’s educated, doesn’t stay here, and can’t stay here either.

So our best children leave. That’s a painful thing. Whoever studies and makes something of themselves leaves, because knowledge is no use here; there are no jobs. When that happens, who’s left in the village? Think about it yourself.

Where do young people go?

To the city, to Tbilisi; some go to Baku, some to Russia. They go after work, after study. And those who go mostly don’t come back: they settle in there, start a family, and stay.

I don’t blame them. They’re young, they want to live, they want to get ahead. If they stayed here, what would they do? But everyone who leaves takes a piece of our village with them. The village is emptying, the houses stand locked up.

So is the situation completely hopeless?

No, it isn’t completely hopeless. There’s one consolation. Our young people, even the ones who’ve left, still come back: at least for holidays, at weekends, they come. They don’t abandon their roots completely.

Some of them even buy land in the village and build houses. They work in the city, but they buy land so they have a place here too. That’s a good sign. It means they keep the village in their hearts. As long as they keep coming and going and buying land, the village won’t die altogether. That’s my hope.

Comparing the old days with now, what would you say?

The old days were hard, there were restrictions, but there was work, there was stability, people were sure of tomorrow. Now there’s freedom, the shops have everything, but there’s no work, nothing is stable.

Both have their good and their bad. I’m not saying the old days were all good, and I’m not cursing the present either. I’m just saying: the worst thing for the village was losing the jobs. If there had been work, young people wouldn’t have left, and the village wouldn’t have ended up like this.

What keeps you on this land?

This is where I was born; it’s the land of my forefathers. Where would I go from here? My whole life has been spent here; I know every corner of it. My father and mother lie in the cemetery, and my ancestors lie there too.

An old person doesn’t break away from their roots. A young person can go; they have their life ahead of them. But I was born here, and here is where I’ll be laid in the ground. This place is my whole life.

How do you see the future?

To be honest, I’m worried. If no jobs are created, if young people don’t find a reason to come back, the village will shrink. You don’t have to be a fortune-teller to see that.

But I’ll say it again: I’m not without hope. The land, family ties, roots: these draw people back. If only there were some kind of workplace here, if some small production were set up, the young would come back. People need a reason. If there’s a reason, this village will come back to life. Even if I don’t live to see that day, let my grandchildren see it; I don’t want anything else.